We play tea party while she's in the tub. She proffers a tiny pink cup filled with bubbles. I make a show of the yummy smelling tea so I get suds on my nose. I try to teach her to say cappuccino. She screams bloody murder when I try to get her to brush her teeth, then she sneaks into the bathroom and brushes when I'm not looking. After the bath she tells me she's a baby, and I swaddle her up in the over-sized frog towel. I carry her all over, looking for the diaper bag with the cream. When I look down at her, she feigns sleep. If I'm not looking, she chatters and giggles. In bed, she asks for the Na Na song. I have no idea what she wants, so I sing the na na na nananana part of "Hey Jude."
She mumbles, tells me a made up story for the first time. I marvel at this: creativity! She wiggles and fusses and shortly, becomes a warm, still softness. "I hold," she requests, meaning "hold me." I curl into her, she twirls her fingers in my hair. "Kitty," she says, petting my head. Her breathing becomes a lulling, relaxing regularity.
She's accepting her night weaning more peacefully. We're averaging one nursing session- maybe two, every day. If we're in bed long- sleeping in last Sunday or when my back was hurt last week, she marathon nurses until I'm annoyed and refuse her. When she nurses in the mornings I melt into it and treasure it, knowing it will probably not be long before she weans completely.
She cracks us up. Yesterday, exasperated, I sighed "Oh child." She finished for me: "Dwivin' me nuts!" I love those moments- when her unbelievable sweetness punctuates my frustration and diffuses it all. The greyness of sleep loss and worry fades to make room for her colorful child-ness. It's so beautiful my heart wants to suspend motion, freeze it and hold it.